


Walking Dead: The State

by God1643



Series: Walking Dead [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: A Really Big Hammer, Berzerker Rage, Blacksmithing, Buried Emotional Pain, Gen, Graphic Violence, Limited Supernatural Powers, Lori Is Rick's Second Wife, Old Wounds, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-01 11:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15772890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/God1643/pseuds/God1643
Summary: Rick Grimes is a deeply troubled man. He has a son from a first marriage, two children from his second, a supernatural power he can only sometimes control, and a group of survivors he has to lead.Oh, yeah. Did I mention the Zombie Apocalypse? I almost left that out. His life is a constant struggle.How about you come and watch?





	1. Opening And Introductions

Rick Grimes was a deeply troubled man. He had seen many horrible things as a beat cop in Atlanta, enough for the stress to cause his wife to leave him and their son.

He moved to Oconee County after his parents passed in their sleep, both victims of an advanced dementia that had taken them one day apart from one another at age seventy.

The previous sheriff, a tough old bastard by the name of John Marston, took in Rick as a deputy. John’s daughter Lori supported Rick through his tough times, for she had known Rick’s parents.

Rick and Lori married after three years, when Rick’s son Alex was eight years old. Little Carl Grimes was born when Alex was ten and Judith followed three years later.

When Alex was eleven, Old Sheriff John retired and Rick was voted in to the job.

By the time Carl was eight and Judith was five, Alex had fully grown into a beast of a man.

Wanting to follow in his father’s footsteps as a sheriff had encouraged him to work himself into peak physical condition. Playing lacrosse since age twelve had him breaking countless bones and making him a tough bastard.

Combine that with Lori’s mother Marsha’s doting food and Alex had grown massive.

Clearing six foot eight ever so slightly, he was four hundred pounds of working muscle. None of his hair had ever been cut, so his long ginger beard descended down to the middle of his muscled chest in a braid. His ochre hair, that strangely did not match his beard, was kept in one long and tightly bound war-braid down his back.

His head was covered always by a brown beaver felt stetson that had once served John Marston very well and was given as a christmas gift.

A silver chain hung about his neck, suspending a hand wrought ovate ring of polished and babied heavy brass with an artistic representation of Yggdrasil in the center.

A pistol belt hung about his hip by way of wide black leather, suspending a Taurus Raging Bull for his right hand and a Colt Python 357 Magnum for his left.

Lori thought it was overkill, but he merely smiled and tilted his hat at his father’s holstered 357 whenever she mentioned it. Lori would huff and roll her eyes, but understood well the attachment some men had to their guns.

One day, when Alex was nineteen and a new deputy, it all went to shit.

It had started off standard, with Rick and Alex joking around and spitting out old stories when a call of an armed robbery and subsequent car chase came over the radio.

Alex reached over and put the receiver near to his mouth and spoke. Rick opened the door and hurriedly dumped the leftovers from lunch into a nearby trash can.

“Got it Ruby. We’ll be on our way.” Alex rumbled, as Rick hopped back into the car with surprisingly agile movements and slammed the door behind him.

Alex hung the receiver back up and swiftly slammed the car into gear as he drove off, peeling away from the Sonic they had been eating at with an eager squeal from the tuned Crown Vic’s tires.

The two pulled up to a roadblock from two other deputies and rapidly deployed the stinger, peeling back to the others in a J-turn that brought them perpendicular with them.

Alex removed his beloved Raging Bull, Lola, from her holster and crouched behind the car door.

Cracking the chamber told him Lola was ready for action, as usual, and the safety was flicked off with a quick, dexterous movement of his long thumb.

Rick hovered behind him over the Crown Vic, torso pushed flush against the vehicle’s roof and 357 magnum brought smoothly to bear in preparation. The car came in swerving over the crest of the road, a gunman leaned out of the left passenger side door.

Alex’s revolver snapped off a thunderous rapport and the man was sent flying off of his precarious position leaning out of the car; with a spray of blood from his right subclavian artery. He hit the ground with a sickening thud and was flattened into the pavement by the Linden County deputy coming up behind.

“Good shot.” Leon complimented, his voice shaky.

“Safety. Round. Chamber.” Alex and Rick chanted in unison. Leon nodded a show of brave face and checked the mentioned parts, flicking off his safety after ensuring a bullet rested in its crib.

“50 yards to the stinger. Brace in case of rolled impact.” Rick rattled off. Alex, Rick and Leon braced their left arms on the weather proofing rubber strips of the car as support, while Ulysses shoved his shoulder deeper into the wheel arch.

“25 yards.” Alex called.

“10 yards.” Rick replied a moment later.

“Prep!” Alex rumbled, as with a tremendous hissing sound and a deafening screech, the old beat charger was sent rolling forwards end over end until it stopped in the ditch on their side of the road.

The car’s door let loose a creaking sound.

Then, the dust cleared.

The driver stumbled out, bleeding profusely from his occipital vein on the left side of his head. He looked around blearily for a moment, before falling unconscious to the asphalt with a thud.

Rick moved forward with Alex at his side, but a hand on the older man’s shoulder made him pause.

“I’ve got a bad feeling. Hold up.” Alex rumbled. Nodding, Rick watched as Alex brought Lola to bear in his right hand and drew Lily, his 357 magnum, and slowly approached the upturned car. As Alex went to open the left door, the right swung open and an arm reached upwards and over the underside of the car to point a shotgun at the young man.

Rick shouted a warning and began sprinting to his son, Ulysses hot on his heels, but knew he would not make the distance in time.

Alex grunted in surprise and ducked, but only managed to contort fast enough for the buckshot to dig into his upper arm instead of his chest. Shouting in pain, Alex unloaded Lola twice into the window of the door from his place on his back on the ground.

A rattling breath was the only response in the cold silence that followed, then a released gurgle.

Rick drew his son desperately away from the car, while Ulysses assisted in hauling the heavy deputy away. As Alex was hauled onto the blacktop, the old charger ignited into an inferno and sent cash flying into cinder clouds.

Alex looked around blearily before uttering a single short phrase, his right arm clutching to stem the blood from his left arm.

“Lola and Lily...” Alex whispered, ensuring that he had managed to holster both of his pistols during their drag to safety. Ulysses scoffed and shook his head in shock at the attachment the little boy who once ran around the sheriff’s department had for his pistols.

Then again, it wasn’t really a surprise, as he was one of the few to know the true story behind Lola and Lily.

The back of the brim of Alex’s beloved stetson slid harshly against the asphalt to allow him to rest his heavy head, as he slid into unconsciousness.

 

When Alex awoke again, his eyes met coldly white ceilings and his nose met the gentle scent of an evaporated cleaning agent of some kind. This told him he resided in a hospital, yet his ears could hear absolutely no noise in the hallway outside the wooden door.

Perhaps this was the dead of night, but under those circumstances his father would have been softly snoring away in the chair in the corner as he always did when Alex went unconscious or was on bedrest. Surprisingly often in Alex’s life had that occured, stemming from the brutal forces applied upon the body in lacrosse.

Alex sat up and swung his legs over the bed, testing his limbs for resistance. A slight twinge of pain in his upper arm had him examine the bandage, remove it with a disgusted sneer and swiftly replace it with a gauze pad and spare cloth roll from the nightstand.

In the corner rested a clean and pressed sheriff’s deputy uniform, his gun belt and beloved pistols hanging over the back of a chair. A black backpack Alex recognized as the bag he used to use for school, sat beneath the seat. Within it were stacked granola bars and bottles of water, from which Alex took a greedy sip.

A note rested atop the clothes, written in Rick’s loopy scrawl.

“ _Come to the house. Trust no one. I’m sorry for the rush. I love you._ ” Alex quashed his panic with a frown and drained one of the four bottles, consuming six of the twenty two granola bars and smashing down the remaining hunger with practice.

Rick had not always had a steady job, after all.

Returning from his reverie with a shake of his head, he stroked his beard as he examined the room.

A spare gurney had been hauled inside, strangely, and was pushed up against the door as if to barricade against something. That immediately put Alex on guard, and he swiftly dressed and did up his belt. His stetson was placed atop his head with the ease of long practice, and he moved the barricade with silken motions.

Drawing his knife, afraid of the noise Lily or Lola would cause attracting whatever had caused the door to be barricaded, he opened the door silently. Scattered debris and papers rested upon the floors, and Alex’s highly keen ears could pick up no sound in the expansive building.

Cracking Lola’s chamber had Alex drawing the two spent shells and gripping them in his hand before returning the pistol to its holster. One shell was lobbed down the hall, sending four distinct rings against the tile bouncing through the expansive corridors.

An inquisitive grunt, guttural and not entirely human sounding, echoed down the hall. Four rattles responded and shambling steps made their way towards the shell.

Alex got his first glimpse into the Order of the New World with their visages.

Disgusting decayed corpses that had no business moving, let alone walking in a vaguely humanoid manner, shambled down the hallway toward the sound.

Alex pulled a folded cloth particulate mask from his wallet, used for fire investigation when he volunteered, and donned it with silent movements. Sending the second and final shell soaring over their heads had them turning to look, as Alex ducked behind the nurse’s desk and began to crawl for the exit.

The monsters, for Alex didn’t entirely know what else to call them, chased after the sound with slow and shambling steps as Alex left the building swiftly. Locking the door behind him with a broom used for the sidewalks in the handle, he turned to view the parking lot.

Usually bustling with ambulances and people, Saint Valentine’s Hospital’s lot was silent as a grave and dotted with body bags. Three military troop carriers had open cabs with seats covered in dried blood. The late afternoon sun beat down upon Alex as he removed his boots and stuffed them in his backpack.

As barefoot was his usual during camping trips and hikes, his calloused feet cared little to none about the smooth lot and did not protest as he used them to silently dart over lawns and sidewalks to his home.

Alex came upon his house, the white siding and blue shutters summoning memories.

Coming home with a broken leg on crutches after a particularly nasty lacrosse accident.

Making pancakes for the family.

A hectic morning where Lori had not packed for a camping trip.

Judith and Carl arguing over who got to shower first, until Alex had simply walked into the bathroom with a smirk and closed the door.

As Alex walked up to the porch, he heard no sound inside. Afraid of what he would find, he opened the door with numb hands pawing for the knob, and searched the house blindly. Finding nothing but ransacked dressers and the food gone, he collapsed onto his knees with a thud and began to weep.


	2. Reminiscing: Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short burst that didn't fit into Chapter Two. Enjoy.

Carl Grimes had a lot of problems. He would be one of the first to admit that. Losing a brother, especially one as beloved as Alex, ruthlessly crushing his emotions to remain grounded, a sister whose protection fell on him when Rick was away.

To be fair, his obsession with knives was almost hilariously small as far as mental issues one could develop growing up in a world where the dead walked and ate the living. Not harmful to others, not harmful to himself, simply a truly deep mesmerizing appreciation for a proper blade.

Many things were good in life, however. At fourteen, Carl had a girlfriend, who had her own problems, but the two counteracted each other quite well.

Enid had known minimal love in a foster home, so little that she did not even know her own surname and came up with ‘Jones’ as a joke; whereas Carl had veritable fountains of affection growing up and knew how to give it.

Carl had a true heart of gold.

Carl Grimes loved Enid Jones with all of his heart, and Enid Jones cherished Carl with everything that she kept bound tightly in her hardened shell. Just because that shell happened to melt when Carl was around, didn’t mean it wasn’t hard.

The two currently sat on a roof in the Alexandria complex. With the Herd contained somewhat within the old quarry, the game around the walls was abundant and could run without fear of wandering walkers.

Carl and Enid passed a pair of army surplus binoculars between them to watch the fauna, giggling like school children as a faun caught up with its mother. A walker emerged from the woods, and Carl felt his breath drop in his chest in fear.

A silenced gunshot from the belltower, a falling twice-dead corpse, and a wave from the sniper later, Carl and Enid laughed uproariously as a buck came along and pissed on the walker.

 

Judith felt Beth’s hands run through her long blonde hair with deft efficiency, putting up the obscenely bushy curls into braids. She stared into her own reflection in the mirror.

A rounded jaw, still containing the barest traces of child fat at age ten and a half, rested beneath pouty dark pink lips under a small nose. High, yet not quite aristocratic cheekbones framed slightly protuberant eye sockets that lent her gaze an intensity uncommon in a young girl.

Tall for her age, Judith stood over Jessie’s son Sam by two whole inches despite their same age, and was truly brilliant intellectually. Learning the basics of physics already from Reg, he hoped to teach her architecture to take over his job when he grew too old.

Judith reminisced about her brother silently, feeling the ghost of his strong arms wrap her in his great bear hugs, his basso chuckles reverberating around the room and never failing to infect her with permeating joy.

Judith felt a single tear trace down her face at the thoughts, then wiped it away serenely and returned to remembering all that was positive about Alex.

 

Rick never forgot his first child. Alex truly never left his thoughts, if he was honest with himself. But, if he knew his son at all, he knew Alex would make it.

Not only make it, but Alex would find him.

Rick had left concise clues when he could of where he planned to take his group, in places where Alex would find them if at all possible.

Sometimes using banners or graffiti to direct Alex through written morse code, even leaving out coordinates. On the last five runs he had done, he had written out the coordinates of Alexandria wherever possible. While perhaps creating danger from other survivors, Rick had ensured to further encode the message with the Grimes nicknames.

_ ‘Pops. Mini. Blondie. Safe and sound. 38.8462 N. 77.3064 W. Good luck Beardy. _ ’

If anyone could puzzle that out, it was the one who taught Rick morse code and had been the one to come up with the nicknames themselves. Rick felt himself fall into memories of his son as the car trundled along on a supply run, with Daryl in the seat behind, Rosita next to him and Abraham driving.


	3. Return: Death And Liberation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex returns.

As Rick, Carl, Jessie, Sam, Ron, Glenn, Maggie, Beth, Daryl, Tara, Rosita, Michonne, and Abraham sat anxiously inside the Anderson’s house with a horde outside, Rick had never so fervently hoped that his son would not find them.

Sadly, and perhaps happily in fact, that proved false.

A single lone figure, not shambling like the others around him, sprinted through the few horde that remained meandering just inside the hole in the wall at this time. Clearing six feet easily, he was covered head to heel in boiled leather armour with steel plate over top.

A stained black stetson bounces wildly on his head as he covers ground, an evil looking hammer clutched tightly in his hands and smashing through the decaying bodies of the Walkers. The steel head was covered in spikes and polished to a shine, catching the dusk light as it sent heads and grey matter into fine clouds.

He clambered into the back of a pickup truck and used the hammer from the high ground to thin the horde’s numbers, a braided and fiery red beard bouncing wildly with the movement as a long braid of ochre hair did the same.

Rick gasped as the beard caught the light and drew the attention of his companions.

“What is it, Dad?” Carl asked.

Rick didn’t respond, caught in a mesmerised trance.

“Alex?” Rick whispered in a query, placing his hand upon the glass. Carl looked at his father in shock and scrambled up from his seat to stand beside his father.

“Sweet Christmas.” Carl whispered, Alex’s code for swearing emerging as he saw his beloved brother for the first time in four winters. Alex was splattered with necrotic fluids and grey matter, yet only a firm and stern grimace of determination graced his hard features.

Carl desperately clamped a hand on his father’s forearm and Rick’s gaze snapped to meet his.

“We have to help him, Dad!” He shouted, drawing silencing gestures from the others. Rick’s gaze drew from its hollow and thoughtful recess, to nod firmly.

“Yes, we do.” Rick drew his knife and turned to the others.

“My son is out there. He needs help. Who is with me?” Rick queried, his voice strong and rumbling out from his gut. Abraham stood and picked up a fire axe, not entirely understanding the situation and yet eager to move and kill. 

Michonne stood and clutched the hilt of her sword, nodding a single strong time in solidarity with her lover.

Rick flung the door open and strode outside, removing his hatchet from his belt loop. His knife slashed wildly and stabbed out in perfect form as his ax cleaved into skulls. Alex backed up in the bed of the truck for a reprieve upon hearing the door swing open and caught sight of his aged father.

Vaulting over the walls of the truck’s bed, he cut a furious line through the horde and met up with his father. Twin stern features gave identical harsh nods, and the two began the Dance of Death.

Alex’s voice, now deeper and harsher than before, called out an order as he swung.

“Duck!” Rick snapped into a squat, trusting his son to think tactically and correctly as his group often did for him. Alex’s vicious maul swung at whistling speeds over Rick’s tucked head to send two walkers flying away.

Rick weaved around his son’s breadth to come up like lightning and pierce a walker’s skull, her hollow eyes giving up what tiny life they had left as she dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

Alex leapt past his father with a roar and a downswing, crushing a short and stocky male walker’s head like a watermelon as his rotted skull was pushed against his own vertebrae. Abraham had his fire axe stuck inside a walker’s head and was yanking to pull it free, when Alex’s boot lashed out to kick the corpse from the blade.

Abraham turned to give a grateful nod towards Alex, but he only gazed upon empty space as Alex’s figure had stepped forward with a thunderous bellow to smash in the heads of two walkers with a vicious horizontal slash.

Alex crushed the arm of a walker reaching for Michonne, who was pinned up against the wall; and kicked away two more that came too close for comfort.

Alex turned on a called order and dropped low, offering his back as a platform for Rick to jump on and come crashing down upon a pair of shambling undead.

Tara and Rosita vaulted the porch into the fray each wielding a hefty cleaver, joined by Glenn with a spiked bat and Maggie with a long hunting knife. Carl jumped to his father’s aid from a latina female walker, driving his knife through her eye socket with an angered yell.

Daryl’s bolts issued forth at a furious rate, drawn from a belt quiver and putting down those at a distance. Glenn’s wiry arms swung his bat at a furious pace to sunder a skull in half, as Maggie removed a black male walker’s head with a slash of her knife.

Rosita called an order and swung her two-handed cleaver, racing past a leaning Tara’s back to remove the top half of a hunched corpse’s head with a sickly squelching sound. As the numbers thinned, the others returned inside to gather the non-combatants as Alex endlessly swung his maul with no sign of tiring.

Rick, Carl, Abraham and Michonne continued clearing the herd as the others evacuated to the central house where the other Alexandrians had left for.

Tara and Rosita covered the back as the other four walked backwards, Alex on vanguard and keeping the most away with broad swings and angry shouts.

The group stumbled up the porch steps and the warriors fanned out as the others entered the house, with Alex swinging no less harshly and roaring no less loudly. If not for the endless numbers Alex had slaughtered at his entrance into the walls, Rick would have been concerned about drawing in the horde to them.

His body count was easily cresting one hundred and fifty, demonstrated by the grey matter, rotten blood and necrotic fluids caked over his armour and weapon.

The shield slung over his back was placed firmly into his left hand so rapidly that Rick nearly thought it was a mirage, the armament being entirely previously hidden by Alex’s winter cloak.

He smashed two walker’s faces in with the blunt face and decapitated another with the sharp edge, as his maul was swung with more force and no less precision.

The door swung open and a voice called out.

“Inside! Now!”

With the remarkable sarcasm that echoed in Rick’s mind whenever he was closest to death, a thought entered his head.

‘ _ Rosita sounds awfully nasally. Perhaps she needs tissues. _ ’ Shoving the thought away with morbid amusement, Rick listened to his son’s barked order with no hesitation.

“Back! Now! I’ve got point!” Alex called, shuffling backward. Now that he was on even ground and there were no allies to suffer friendly fire, Alex swung with all the power in his right arm and screamed louder than he ever had before, with fathomless rage and nearly incandescent fury.

As arcs of walkers fell like wheat to the scythe, he backed up with steady footsteps onto the stairs and all the way inside of the house.

The comparatively innocent Alexandrians stared in awe as this monstrous warrior calmly closed and locked the door, barricading it with a nearby chair. His face may as well have been carved from granite for all the emotion it showed as he turned to the group.

Then, it softened as he saw his family. Carl and Rick were gripped with a furious pressure against Alex’s broad chest, caring none at all that their faces were pressed against the mess on his armour.

“It’s so good to finally find you.” Alex murmured, laying his head against Carl’s and squeezing his father tighter as he gave a soft smile. As he broke the embrace, a gasp sounded at the top of the stairs and feet thundered down the flight.

Launching into his arms, Judith clung tightly to her brother and buried her blonde locks under his chin.

“And you, my beloved little sister.” Alex rumbled, calmly rubbing her back even as she began to sob into his beard with wild sounds.


	4. Chapter 4: Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural emergence. A little bit of humanizing.

Alex ate a preserved meal, calmly inhaling deer jerky into his mouth as raw brown rice was dumped into a hearty canned chicken soup and consumed expediently.

Judith watched her older brother, categorising his new scars, with her entire hand wrapped up in his to ensure he was real.

Wiping his mouth and beard with a handkerchief, he stood from his seat. The others watched as he removed his armour, the steel plate taken off first with deft efficiency.

The boiled leather fell from his shoulders and legs to clatter upon the ground, and was then spread carefully to ensure it didn’t kink up or crack with the strain of its own weight.

The sweat, necrotic fluids, blood and splattered brains made for a foul smell, but Alex trudged to the back porch, in the fenced yard, and blasted the surfaces with the hose and hung them to dry. The leather would need to be oiled, the plate would need to be polished and his shield’s edge sharpened, but it removed the smell from the home.

Abraham came outside after a moment and a silent nod was given, gesturing for the hose’s handle. Alex nodded in response and finished up, blasting his own hands, and handed it to Abraham who washed his own bloody hands and the fire ax he had used.

As Alex moved back inside, a few of the dirtier warriors from their skirmish marched outside to repeat his actions, and each gave either nods of acknowledgement or suspicious glares. Alex nodded back politely in either case, and his long strides and steel-covered boots carried him swiftly to the living room.

A short woman sat opposite his father, her eyes cold and judging as she looked at Alex. Professional clothing of a decent quality clad her body, but had clearly been worn out over years with no additions to her wardrobe.

Her face held an equal mix of smile lines and frown lines, heavily wrinkled with stress and her brow currently pinched into a considering furrow. Her body marked her as one who was a true beauty in her youth, but the years had taken their toll, as her greying brunette hair showed.

Next to her was a tall older man with combed and parted blond hair, greying around the fringes as warm blue eyes stared at the floor, deep in thought. Ink stains in between and on his fingers alongside creases on his wrists showed he worked at a desk with handwriting tools, perhaps as an engineer with blueprints or an archivist.

A bandage was wrapped tightly around his chest and peeked out from the jacket he wore over it instead of a shirt, perhaps it was a long wound that did not allow him to pull a shirt over his head. His hand reached out as Alex entered to grasp the woman’s, and Alex saw her face soften ever so slightly.

On the couch that ran perpendicular to the man and woman’s chair, rested two people. A tall young brunette with shoulder length hair cut into a choppy bob, a knife at her hip. She wore faded blue jeans with a faded t-shirt, that looked like it had once had ‘ _John Deere Tractors_ ’ written in blocky letters.

An asian man of average height sat next to her, his left hand gripped in hers and his right adjusting a beaten up baseball cap on his head. A couple of day’s worth of patchy stubble built up on his chin. He was dressed similar to the girl next to him, with faded black jeans and a plain blue shirt on.

Alex’s ears picked up a whispered remark between them, and assigned their names accordingly in his mind.

Alex stepped fully into the room and stood beside the seat opposite the older couple, resting his right hand on his father’s left shoulder. Rick met his gaze and gave a nod, and Alex crossed the room to sit against the wall in an armchair.

“How’s the Horde?” Alex asked, his voice a low rumble. Rick straightened in his seat and spoke.

“The numbers have thinned dramatically. We’re missing fourteen people, but no human screams were heard aside from you entering The State.” Rick said. Alex gave a nod of acceptance and thanks, then he leaned back into the chair and began to stroke his long beard in thought.

“The State? I can practically taste the capitals.” The asian man remarked. Alex and Rick gave identical wry chuckles and Rick spoke again.

“It’s a curse. An ancient one, on my family.” Rick said.

Glenn sat up in slight alarm, a small crease of worry in his brow.

“Curses aren’t real are they?” Glenn asked worriedly. Alex gave a dry chuckle.

“The Dead getting up and walking around wasn’t real five years ago either.” Alex remarked. Glenn ceded him the point and let Rick continue.

“The Curse brings madness. A battle rage, at the slightest scent of blood. Luckily, it seems to only apply when the blood that had been spilt is either innocent, and the Cursed descends on the perpetrator, or when the blood is from an evil or outright sociopathic source.” Rick explained.

“Doesn’t get more sociopathic and emotionless than a walking corpse.” The blond man remarked. Rick nodded in agreement.

“Indeed not. The problem comes when we fly into the rage completely. If we descend too far, we either can’t feel the pain dealt to us, or we never come out of it. Each has our own way of handling it. I bottle it tightly, and the spirit within is usually content to let me store it until I use it all at once.” Rick said. He turned to Maggie and Glenn.

“The only time you would have seen it is the Tombs after Lori.” He said softly. Maggie shuddered in response at the memories conjured, while Glenn lost what little colour there was on his pale face.

“The State supercharges our adrenal gland, through a method or enzyme we aren’t quite yet familiar with. As a result, we become nearly supernatural in strength and endurance, but we lose speed overall. We usually use weapons that take strength to swing, but gains its own speed as it moves.

This allows us to cause the most damage. Historically it took agile assassins to kill us, as we served as bodyguards for nobles, because they could just move away from our blows.

Now, though, the walkers don’t dodge.” Rick said. Alex took over.

“I let out The State pretty much I chance I have, as long as it won’t hurt an ally. As you saw, it was boiling right underneath the surface for most of the fight, and came out before I ascended the stairs to the house.” Alex explained.

The four nodded.

“Are you always that loud?” The older man joked, catching Alex’s hazel orbs with his blue gaze.

“No. Usually, I’m louder.” Alex remarked. The man chuckled.

“If you think that’s loud, you should hear Dad when he cuts it all loose. Some guy smacked Carl once, when I was about fourteen, and I think Dad would have killed him outright if not for me pulling him away. Not that I didn’t want to do the same, but I wasn’t the candidate for sheriff like he was.” Alex said.

“Why’d the guy slap Carl?” Maggie asked softly.

“He was a predator. Carl put his pocket knife into the guy’s leg when he tried to abduct him. The guy didn’t very much like that.” Rick said. Glenn chuckled.

“That sounds like our little cutter, alright.” Glenn said, and the five laughed.

“You should get some rest, Dad. You look like hammered shit.” Alex said. Rick scoffed, but stood. He crossed the room to embrace his son, then nodded and turned to leave. His boots clunked off and he padded up the stairs. A thud and ‘Oof!’ later, and he was snoring on one of the floor sleeping bags.

“So, what do you want to know?” Alex asked, turning to the others. Maggie spoke first.

“How come Rick never talked about you?” She asked, her southern accent prevalent as she spoke softly. Alex turned his gaze to her and replied.

“The Grimes have never been good at grief. I managed to cut down an eighty year old oak with a dull hand ax when I was six because my grandparents died. Pops broke his own hand and shattered a couple of toes punching and kicking a wall when Lori fell into a coma after Carl’s birth.

One of our ancestors and his brother saw their son and nephew, respectively, crucified for offering sanctuary to the evacuating pagans. Their resulting rampage was so merciless and bloody that it dawned the myth of the werewolf in Bulgaria, of men who change into beasts.

My great aunt was killed at a young age, and my great grandfather killed the four men who did it then turned himself in. The list goes on and on.” Alex stated, his speech slow and calm as he stroked his beard, even though he discussed something so heinous.

“Frankly, the fact that either Rick or Carl hasn’t slipped into The State and that they haven’t explained our curse to you before is truly remarkable.” Alex stated dryly.

“We saw Rick do it once, according to him just now. We were so scared by his expression and actions, along with the overlaying grief in that day on its own, that we tend to bury it. At least, I know I do.” Glenn said.

Alex nodded.

“Understandable. The first time I fell into The State is the first time I truly felt out of control. I strive to get rid of that feeling from my life, without imparting those feelings onto others by controlling them. ‘Tis a difficult balance to achieve, and I still require much practice if I am to do it as well as Dad.” Alex rumbled.

The others nodded their understanding. The older woman, still unnamed to Alex and still silent, poured herself and Maggie a cup of tea and sat back into her chair to drink.

“Your father is good at pushing people to do things. Whether or not they want to.” The older woman said. Alex gave a wry chuckle in response.

“You disagree?” Deanna asked.

“Yes. I disagree. But I also find it funny you are blaming him for the strife within your community. This was always going to happen at some point.” Alex replied.

“And how do you figure that?” Deanna hissed. Alex sat up at her hostile tone and pierced her eyes with his, glaring at her and catching her gaze.

“You are all soft. You didn’t fight out there. You didn’t see the worst.” Alex replied. Deanna opened her mouth to make a counterpoint, but Alex steamrolled over her.

“How many did you lose a day?” Alex asked.

“We lost sixteen since the Outbreak.” Deanna replied.

“I had a group. A big group. We got pinned in the center of a herd. All my sledge could do was slow down the walkers as they chewed through us. I killed fifteen hundred and sixty two over four hours, and all it did was doom my others. I fell in love with a girl, and I had to watch as fifteen walkers ripped her to pieces.” Alex growled and launched himself from his chair, to hover over Deanna and push his presence just against her figure.

“You lost sixteen in five years? Well, I lost two hundred and twelve in a half hour. A further seventy one died of starvation and infighting, until I woke to find the remaining good people, the soft ones, the old ones and the children, had been killed by the strong. I killed them.” Alex rumbled, his glaring gaze mere inches from her wide eyes.

“Four hundred and eighty four. Over a period of twelve days. Only I remain. There’s the worst. That’s what I saw. So don’t tell me you had it hard.” Alex snarled.

Standing up, he stomped from the room and the back door slammed as he stormed into the backyard. A pause in time later, as the four considered what he had told them, they watched him pass back in front of their door, fully armoured, and clutching his sledge.

They heard feet scrambling to move out of his way, and the front door slam. A walker’s inquisitive grunt was met with an angry bellow, and a sickly crunch came a moment later, followed by a thunderous roar and the sound of the hammer whistling through the air. Then, a squelching sound.

Which rapidly continued into a cycle.


End file.
